Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘Welcome to the big-time. Gargoyle’s dime.’

‘Right yer are.’ Dean shuts the door and picks up the phone. Room service. He’s seen this in films. You say what you want on the phone, and the food arrives on a trolley under a silver dome. There’s a button marked ‘ROOM SERVICE’. He presses it.

A man answers: ‘Room service.’

‘Uh, hi, I’d like a bite o’ lunch if that’s okay.’

‘What’s that now, sir? A what for lunch?’

‘A bite o’ lunch. Some lunch. Please.’

‘Oh, a “bite” of lunch. What did you have in mind?’

‘Um … what is there?’

‘There’s a menu right by the telephone, sir.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ He opens the menu but it’s in a foreign language, or most of it is. Croque monsieur; John Dory; avocado; boeuf bourguignon; lasagna; tiramisu; crème brûlée … Dean can’t even pronounce most of these, let alone guess what they are. ‘A sandwich?’

‘We have the club sandwich, sir.’

‘Thank God. One o’ them, please.’

‘And would you like that on poppyseed, sourdough, walnut …’

‘In bread, please. Just normal white bread.’

‘You got it, sir. And vinaigrette or thousand island dressing?’

Dressing? ‘Mate, are yer taking the piss?’

A pause. ‘Perhaps just a little ketchup on the side, sir?’

‘Now yer talking. Cheers.’

‘It’ll be with you in thirty minutes, sir.’

Dean puts down the receiver. Stress ebbs away.

The telephone emits one long loud rrrrrringggggg.

Oh God, something else about the sandwich. ‘Hello?’

‘Mr Moss, this is the hotel switchboard again. We have a second call from London for you: a Mr Rod Dempsey.’

Dean’s whole body tightens. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘Hold the line one moment, sir.’

Click; scratch; clunk. ‘God of Rock, how are yer?’

‘Hi, Rod. That kind o’ depends on yer news.’

‘The news is, the ballistic missile o’ scandal ’n’ shit that was about to destroy yer life has been knocked out o’ the sky.’

Thank fuck for that. ‘So I’m in the clear?’

‘Yep. The Other Party dug their heels in for three and a half grand, but yer won’t be short of a few bob now yer’ve a hit single, I know. I wrote a cheque for the first two thousand, so yer can reimburse me once yer back.’

Enough to buy a house on Peacock Road. ‘Right. Thanks. And they’ll send the negs once yer cheque clears?’

‘They’ll send the what?’

‘The negatives. O’ the photos. So they can’t use ’em.’

‘Ah, well, what we said was, we’ll meet in No Man’s Land, they’ll show me the negs, and burn ’em in front of me.’

Something’s fishy. ‘Oh. Is that—’

‘Diplomacy’s a delicate art, Dean. Both sides need to be happy with the outcome, or there is no outcome.’

‘So … I’ll come along to No Man’s Land and see the job done.’

‘No can do, I’m afraid. The Other Party don’t want yer meeting ’em. They’re very clear. No face to face.’

Something’s wrong . ‘Rod, how’m I s’posed to know that the negs’ve been destroyed? Or …’ Dean feels a free-falling sensation, and arrives at the truth, a few seconds later.

This is all Rod Dempsey’s scam. The photographs don’t exist. Ditto ‘The Other Party’. Dean and Tiffany may have been seen at the Hyde Park Embassy, but that’s all. He’s reeled me in like a trout. Dean grasps at reasons why this can’t be true. How could he know ’bout the blindfolds ’n’ cuffs?

Dean recalls the night they went out to the Bag o’ Nails. Four guys, out on the lash, in a nightclub. I blurted it out myself. Just the sort of titbit an extortionist would file away.

But why now?

Why d’yer think? Rod knows Dean helped Kenny and Floss get out of his clutches and out of London.

Rod’s voice turns gentle. ‘Or what, Dean?’

‘In my shoes, wouldn’t yer want to see these pictures with yer own eyes before forking out three ’n’ a half grand?’

A pause. An exhalation. ‘Only if I thought yer’d fucked me over, Deano. So tell me. Is that what yer thinking? Or have I misunderstood?’ Rod’s intimidating …

Which proves it. Why would a practised blackmailer insist on negotiating with hard-knock ex-con Rod Dempsey and not helpless Dean Moss, the object of the blackmail? He must’ve been laughing his tits off. ‘Yer must’ve been laughing yer tits off.’

Rod Dempsey’s voice turns icy. ‘I’ve saved yer arse, Rock God. You and yer married actress. Is this the thanks I get?’

What if yer wrong? ‘It ain’t adding up, Rod.’

‘Here’s what ain’t adding up: two grand. You – owe – me .’

‘Cancel the cheque.’

‘I paid in cash, genius. Cheques leave a trail.’

‘Ah, but yer just told me yer paid with a cheque.’

‘Who gives a shit how I paid? Yer owe me two grand!’

He’s lying. ‘What happened to “Gravesend boys against the world”? What did I do to yer?’

Nine time-zones and five thousand miles away, Rod Dempsey lights a cigarette. ‘Yer know what yer did. Yer think fame makes yer untouchable? Yer think Mrs Shag-a-bag’s Bayswater address keeps her safe? Wrong. Dead wrong. Yer shoved yer fat beak into my business. Yer’ll pay for that, Moss. Yer’ll pay .’

The line goes prrrrrrrrr …

The driver sent by the festival is a man-mountain by the name of Bugbear. He’s maybe Dean’s age but moves lumberingly and limps. He helps the band into the VW Camper and hunches behind the wheel, like a boy too big for his go-kart. ‘Climb aboard, y’all. It’s a squeeze. Can’t adjust the frickin’ seats.’ Dean sits up front, with Elf, Levon and Griff behind, Jasper and Mecca and her camera in the back. The Camper coasts down a steep street, growls up a steeper one and waits at a crossroads. Intersection . The others are enjoying the streetscapes, but Rod Dempsey’s threat and a not-yet-digested club sandwich sit ill in him. Dean knows he should call Tiffany and warn her, but he’s afraid she’ll fly off into a pointless panic. Dempsey’s bluffing about targeting her. Surely? She’s Tiffany Hershey née Seabrook. Not some exploitable nobody like Kenny and Floss.

Elf asks Bugbear if he’s from San Francisco.

‘Uh-huh. Nebraska, originally.’

‘What brought yer to California?’ asks Dean.

‘A twelve-hour army transport from Hawaii.’

Dean asks, ‘Vietnam?’

Bugbear gazes forwards. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’ve heard it’s bad out there.’

Bugbear puts in a stick of gum. ‘In the morning, my platoon had forty-two men. By evening, there were six left. Of those six, three made it back to base. So, yeah. It’s bad out there.’

Griff, Elf, Dean and Levon exchange looks, not sure what to say. Jesus bloody Christ , thinks Dean. And I think I’ve got problems. A streetcar full of tourists rumbles by. Mecca leans from the window and takes photographs. The lights turn green, and the van shunts off, slipping onto a faster road and now the Bay Bridge. The first eastbound section is roofed by the westbound section and walled by flickering girders. Dean sees ships and boats on the blue-green-grey water far below. Towns fringe the distant shoreline. Mountains crumple up behind them. Places I’ll never go . The double-decked span of the bridge ends in an eight-lane tunnel drilled through Yerba Buena Island, halfway across …

Rod Dempsey can’t know I helped Kenny and Floss get out of London , Dean thinks, unless he’s got hold of them again, and forced them to tell him … in which case, God help them. I could get Ted Silver to force the law to get involved, but it’ll get very messy very quickly … and Dempsey’ll blow the lid off me ’n’ Tiffany … ‘What a bloody mess.’